In late autumn 1974, Werner Herzog walked from Munich to Paris. In the logbook of his journey he mentioned the village I grew up in and that I had left a few months before he passed through it. His three words in Vom Gehen im Eis / Of Walking in Ice are possibly the only literary mention of the village. Forty-two years later I repeated one leg of Werner Herzog's walk, from Burgfelden to Dotternhausen. Just like him, I passed through the village I grew up in without stopping.